Apparently, no one is listening.
The second Sally and her mother disappear from sight, Dalton and Cassidy materialize by my side. They arrive out of nowhere, how plainclothes men always do, imitating the dead with their quietness. Their flannel shirttails hang loose over sagging gun belts, the wind teases their long hair.
I soothe myself: it’s been a glorious day. These assholes are a mirage. They’re nothing but a bad dream. I’ll kill them tonight in my sleep. You wait and see. I’ll kill them good.
Dalton begins our conversation with a sprinkling of insincere pleasantries. “Pastor, it’s great to see you again. Really great. I’m stoked.”
I lay it on thick in the same phony spirit. “And you, my son. What a delightful occasion this is. Our renewed communion. Worthy of celebration and revelry. All is well?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“Yes?”
“I’m unhappy. Things ain’t going too swift.”
“I hate to ask. What’s the problem?”
“Let me explain it to you.”
Wordlessly, with a practiced flourish, Dalton reaches out, spins me around, and employs his arm like a nutcracker on my neck. Here we go. Tighten your seat belt. I’m off to the rodeo.
Getting chokeholded, you crave two things. Maybe three. First, you want your feet on the ground. If they’re not, you’re screwed. Two, you don’t want your neck broken. Forget passing out, that’s too romantic—you just don’t want to die.
Too bad you can’t have it both ways. Since I weigh a hundred pounds less than Dalton, my feet say goodbye to the sidewalk without the slightest hesitation.
I dangle inches off the pavement. Dalton is cooing in my ear, “You little shit,” like he’s reciting a nursery rhyme. But I’m not a little shit. Not me.
Please tell me this isn’t happening. That I’m imagining it. That all the hours staring into the bottom of the empty donations bucket is worth it. That when I chant, help the needy, help the poor, pleading with the world until my throat is raw, it’s for a good cause. Wasn’t I cool to that little girl Sally?
I guess I wasn’t cool enough.
I separate my body from my mind.
I’m high above everything. Ahead of me is cottony white light. Isn’t that where you go when you bite the dust? I don’t want that. Not death. Not now. I switch directions. Soon enough, I find what I’m looking for. A place with no pain.
There are three parts to the picture. Dalton scowling. Cassidy standing off to one side, uninterested. And me, chokeholded in Dalton’s meaty arms.
Dalton hisses: “You’re an ex-con, aren’t you?”
It’s not fair, him bringing up the past. And at this particular moment. My personal history is none of his concern—I’m jolted when he mentions Rhonda by her maiden name. The very sound of it turns my stomach.
“Your wife was Rhonda Dukowsky, right? She’s a piece of work. You two must be quite a pair. You took a fall for her. What did it get you? A felony conviction. You stupid fucking dork.”
One night slightly more than five years ago, Rhonda and I are drinking at La Loca, a neighborhood bar that’s been infiltrated by the new tech crowd. She and I are at a corner table with glasses of the house wine. A younger white cat barges into us, causing Rhonda to spill her drink.
Never one to shy away from conflict, she gets in his face, telling him to buy her another glass of wine. He’s three sheets to the wind and says no. I advise him to apologize. He bursts out laughing: “You faggot.”
Faggot. I’ve been called that more than my own name. Like the word is printed on my forehead. With people just repeating what they see. To prove they’re literate.
When he says it again, Rhonda directs her wine glass to remap his face.
Without any further ado, she and I scatter. It turns out her victim is a prominent tech executive. While waiting at the bar for medical attention, he tells SWAT inspectors he doesn’t remember who glassed him, Rhonda or me.
That night the police pull us in for questioning. Right off the bat, I take the rap for Rhonda. I do it out of marital generosity. I do it on impulse, the way I do everything. At first, the cops think I’m lying. A week later I’m arrested. After a lightning-fast trial, I am sentenced to a nickel in the state pen at Muscupiabe for assault with a deadly weapon.
Dalton pokes a finger up my nose. “Where is he, Pastor?”
I sputter: “Who’s that?”
“The damn Mexican that’s robbing banks.”
“I don’t know shit.”
“Kiss my ass. You’re lying. You’ve seen him.”
E Street is the epicenter of the universe—I see thousands of people each day. And I don’t judge bank robbers. I accept everyone for who they are. Because everybody is an injured soul.
Dalton drops me onto the sidewalk. I am far away, in a place with no pain. A place where I’m second only to Superman. Fading sunlight stretches in a line across my face. Shadows do not enter the picture. Where are you, Sugar Child?